


To This Moment a Rebel

by htebazytook



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, PWP, Rough Sex, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-21
Updated: 2008-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:22:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've never written anything in this fandom before, but my inability to find the kind of Speckett fic I was looking for compelled me to write one.  Also I admit I only have vague (that is to say, Wikipedian) notions of Jack and Beckett's back story, but I plead poetic license and AU, since this is an AU anyway.  Title inspired by John Wilmot, aka <a href="http://deepdarkdepp.com/libertine/page3/4.jpg">this movie</a>.  Cross-posted.</p>
    </blockquote>





	To This Moment a Rebel

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written anything in this fandom before, but my inability to find the kind of Speckett fic I was looking for compelled me to write one. Also I admit I only have vague (that is to say, Wikipedian) notions of Jack and Beckett's back story, but I plead poetic license and AU, since this is an AU anyway. Title inspired by John Wilmot, aka [this movie](http://deepdarkdepp.com/libertine/page3/4.jpg). Cross-posted.

**Title:** To This Moment a Rebel  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17 for bad words, and sex, oh noes!  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairing:** Jack Sparrow/Lord Beckett  
 **Author's Notes:** I've never written anything in this fandom before, but my inability to find the kind of Speckett fic I was looking for compelled me to write one. Also I admit I only have vague (that is to say, Wikipedian) notions of Jack and Beckett's back story, but I plead poetic license and AU, since this is an AU anyway. Title inspired by John Wilmot, aka [this movie](http://deepdarkdepp.com/libertine/page3/4.jpg). Cross-posted.

 

Jack Sparrow had never been so glad to see Anamaria, never mind that he felt a bit like Odysseus on her ship and was truly wary of everything she tried to feed him. After all he hadn't returned her ship to her, nor replaced it. But then again he had also never intended to lose _his_ ship. Again.

He wasn't a particularly big fan of the Spanish port at Trinidad, but he _was_ grateful to be on land, for once—he didn't fancy the possibility of joining the crew of the _Flying Dutchman_ all that much anymore. Jack could not endure The Whelp for a scant few weeks let alone all of eternity. And he wasn't likely to run into anyone he knew here. It was where the more upstanding dirty dealers took their business these days.

Jack paused on the teeming docks, trying to remember the location of the closest tavern. It _might_ be fun to wander aimlessly and see how long it took to find it, though. And what else was there to do?

*

Two hours later found Jack exceedingly thirsty and walking up to the nearest stationary, intelligent-looking person to ask for directions.

"Why, ye've just walked past it, sir. Doan't you see the sign?"

Jack turned around. The sign read _Ale Houfe_.

". . . Oh."

*

The crowd inside the tavern was only mildly rowdy, and there were more (intact) windows in the place than usual. Somebody rolled a barrel of alcohol by him. Jack shrugged inwardly—rum was rum—and went in search of some for himself.

He spotted a bottle on a corner table occupied by a very broody sort of gent, the kind that wouldn't even look up if you spoke to him. The man's clothes had seen better days, indeed they had once been very fine. Indeed, the pattern reminded Jack of . . . he hesitated before peering under the battered three-cornered hat.

"Cutler," Jack stated. He blinked several times. " _Cutler_ ," he repeated consideringly, unsure of the favorability of the situation. "How—?"

"It's 'Lord', now," was all he said, looking sadly bedraggled and wigless. Jack had all but forgotten Beckett's real hair color. It suited him much better than powdery white, made him look less like a porcelain doll and more like a human man. He should've been reminded of finding Norrington in Tortuga but somehow the scene before him was entirely different.

Jack stared until Beckett deigned to shoot him a cool, expectant glance, looking like nobility even in his less than put together state. Jack shook his head, accepted Beckett's sudden livelihood, as it were, and sat down next to him, pulling the abandoned bottle along the table.

"And what may I ask do you plan to do wiv yourself now, bereft as you are of your loyal bewigged pawns?" Jack pulled the cork out and discovered to his delight that it was mostly full.

Beckett raised his eyebrows. "You think me incapable of relying on myself alone, do you. Oh, Captain," he said mockingly, "that is all I have ever _done_."

Jack broke the tense gaze to take a flourishing swig from his bottle. "You know, mate. There's times I'm fair certain you're more unhinged than me own self. Rum?"

Beckett eyed the dusty bottle with distaste. "No, thank you. I've endured enough rum in the past three days to permanently quench my thirst for it." He sat back in his chair, at ease once again. It was inexplicably thrilling when Beckett let his guard down, even a little bit.

"Trinidad not to your liking then?" Jack asked, following suit and arranging himself in the rough, wobbly chair as comfortably as possible. He closed his eyes, which was perhaps dangerous, but Beckett liked thinking he had control, and that in turn could make _Beckett_ vulnerable.

"Not as such," came Beckett's voice, louder-closer than expected.

One kohl-smeared eye slid open. Beckett was sitting forward in his chair now, staring blatantly at Jack, edgy all over again.

"Why?" Beckett continued, using his eyes, looking down and then up through lashes to flicker around Jack's mouth and open tunic and most of all his eyes, "Is there somewhere more suitable we could be?"

Jack's face pulled an amused smile and he said in his most gravely voice, "Keen to play this game again, eh?"

Beckett smiled back briefly. But his couldn't really be called a smile—it was all born of smugness and twisted delights.

"Ha," Jack said rather than laughed. "Well, mate, I 'aven't got my ship"—Beckett rolled his eyes at that, Jack frowned at him—"'No, I am not technically in possession of _my_ vessel—yes, luv, _mine_ , savvy?—at this particular moment in time."

"I _see_." Beckett felt he was ahead again. "You've managed to lose your one true love in this dreary rum-soaked world, your precious _Pearl_ , again. Really, _again_ , Jack? You ought to keep a better hold on her, the way she keeps running off with other men." His eyes were savoring, not twinkling, Jack translated. "Perhaps if you had given the ' _Pearl_ ' back to me, we wouldn't be in this mess in the first place." He sounded more contemplative than mocking when he said it. Jack decided to follow him down the insightful route.

"You know, mate, ya might've ended up as a cursed skeleton wot can't satisfy its human needs. Who knows?"

Beckett laughed lightly. "Unlike you, Jack, I don't keep myself alive with rum and fucking."

"No, of course not—you do it with tea and fucking people over."

Beckett looked momentarily affronted.

Jack lowered his voice, "And I know how intimidating your minions must find it when you stir sugar lumps into your fine floral China."

And then Beckett burst into laughter, such legitimate laughter that Jack joined in and for awhile and it was as though they were normal people who didn't try to kill one another on any given day.

Beckett calmed down enough to knock a good portion of his tankard back—wait, he had been drinking? Jack's eyes widened. He had never seen Beckett drink so much so quickly. He rubbed mental hands together with glee at the prospect of a drunken Beckett.

"You never answered me first question, mate," Jack reminded him, thumbing one of his rings. He looked over at Beckett, noticed him staring at his own ring.

Beckett sighed, reaching for his drink again and pausing, holding it in midair, still studying the ring. "It seems clear there's somebody I'm supposed to be seeking vengeance on, but frankly the only person I can think of is you." He glanced over. "And frankly that is nothing but a disappointment for me, because it's only _you_. It just wouldn't be any _fun_ , you see."

Beckett wasn't one wont to confide in anybody, yet here he was, talking everything out loud to Jack. "Can't say I'm not glad to hear that."

"I didn't start out hating you lot so much, y'know." Beckett was beginning to slur now. Jack couldn't wait to see where this would go. "It's just you're all so bloody—ugh, you're just a lot of bloody _pirates_."

"Aye, mate. Pirates are perhaps more prone to bloodiness than some. But then again lookit who I'm talking to."

"You're one of the better ones, I'd have to say."

Jack beamed and opened his mouth, then he closed it. "'Old on a minute, there. Is that a compliment or not?"

Beckett was staring blankly into the crowd, and continued to do so as he spoke. "I actually have no idea. But you know what, Jack? Do take it as a compliment, please! What have I got to lose?" He laughed unsteadily.

Jack didn't understand how drink affected people. He always felt drunk whether he was or not. Other people didn't seem to realize they could get their sea legs to most anything.

"Anyway," Beckett said, sipping more alcohol and licking his lips, letting his gaze wander back to Jack and rake over him quite unabashedly.

Jack cleared his throat and pushed up his sleeves. "This place get very busy at night?"

"I suppose so. More people come in."

Jack swayed subtly closer. "S'getting hotter."

"Rather." Beckett looked at him steadily, took off his hat (a hat which wasn't particularly befitting of a lord) and fanned himself with it ironically. He paused, his attention caught, and traced the pale scar he'd put on Jack's arm consideringly. "I enjoyed doing that," he commented. "Did you enjoy leaving your mark on me, I wonder . . ."

"What's that?" Jack frowned. The direction they were falling in caught itself just in time. Beckett just continued looking at him, trying hard not to appear weak. "What're you going on about?"

Beckett changed again, rolling his eyes and making himself the intelligent one.

"Bugger it," Jack muttered. Even though he was immensely curious, there were pressing matters at hand. Specifically his hand pressing to Beckett's matters.

Beckett's eyes widened at the suddenness of it and his mouth fell open with the pleasure. "Bugger," he echoed under his breath.

"What, here?" Jack asked in a low tone that hummed. _He_ had no objections.

"I say, _do_ keep your hands to yourself, Jack, we're in _public_ ," he smirked.

Jack shrugged. He removed his hand and put it to better use bringing more rum to his lips.

"What happened to your hat?"

"Dunno, mate. It'll turn up eventually, I 'ave no doubt. What happened to your pretty bow?" He squinted.

Beckett's mouth quirked up briefly. "Give me some of that, will you?" he said and took the bottle of rum from Jack's hand without waiting for an answer, drinking a considerable amount and staring unblinkingly at Jack the whole time. "It's rather stuffy in here, one feels."

Jack grinned. "I know exactly what you mean, luv," he said, standing up.

*

When they reached the top of the stairs Beckett thudded against the wall and pulled Jack against him, apparently more eager than he let on. Jack leaned in to kiss him, felt him sighing at the contact. How long had Beckett been without this?

Jack let the press of their mouths recede to heated clinging and soft seeking movements. Beckett pulled back, letting out a steadying breath. Away from the shadows and saturating orange light of the tavern Jack finally noticed the fading bruises on Beckett's face—no, burn scars, hidden by the beginnings of a proper tan. He felt a twinge of guilt for not killing Beckett in a less unpleasant way. He even felt a measure of guilt that he hadn't managed to kill him at all—it wasn't that _Jack_ wanted Beckett dead though. No fun. But it didn't matter . . .

Jack must have been staring dumbly because Beckett gave him an exasperated look and wordlessly tugged him into an empty room. There were no candles lit but descending dusk flooded the rough wooden planks making up walls and furniture with a grey light. Judging from the hat and coat and unmade bed, this was somebody else's room for the evening. It wasn't likely they'd be returning any time soon however—the night was young.

Jack turned his attention back to Beckett and almost jumped when he saw him—Beckett was so still and his eyes were so penetrating in the gloom. He looked ready to spring.

"Jack, I really, deeply believe that everybody—everybody should dab their eyes with burned up plants. _God_." Jack could see that he was shaking subtly as he approached. So patient and predatory.

Jack shrugged out of the heavy coat, baldric and cutlass thunking onto the floor, pushed into him in the same movement, pushed his mouth against Beckett's hard, felt himself getting hard too quickly. It was so good to taste someone he already knew how to taste, he couldn’t believe how much he remembered or how much Beckett remembered or how much, oh _bloody hell_ , how was it possible to get this hard this fast?

"It's . . . for the sun," Jack murmured a little breathlessly, but Beckett knew that, didn't care, and Jack really was getting breathless now. "Y'know, 's . . . 'sbright, uh . . ."

Beckett moved on to nipping at Jack's neck, then back to his mouth, licking deeper. So much heat and feeling from those little things, it had a loud intensity against the quiet fading light.

"Mmm, Jack," Beckett said damply against his skin; Jack shivered. "I must tell you how pleased I am we've run into each other again."

It was very apparent that Jack was equally as pleased.

Sex was just something Jack did. It was laced through everything. He was attracted to mostly everyone, and it didn't take much to spark his, er, interest. But there was something that set Beckett apart. He wasn't particularly physically attractive, not in the way that, say, Elizabeth was—no, it was something in Beckett's energy, in the refined manner that overlay it. He used mild words for murders, moved and spoke lazily while his mind calculated. He had such a pretty mask but fucking him tore it right off, revealed such a range of—well, it revealed a lot. Amazing to see what Beckett was _truly_ , what he could feel. Jack thought a lot about people, a habit that always turned useful eventually, and he had thought an _awful_ lot about Beckett, but still found the marriage of his careful appearances and his unique sense of morality sickening and intoxicating. And Jack had _certainly_ seen his share of beautiful and dangerous things . . .

Beckett's breath coaxed his skin aflame. He shoved Jack rather forcefully and the pirate landed against a collection of wooden planks meant to replicate an armoire. Jack felt Beckett's leg press between his and closed his eyes. Beckett licked up his neck and kept changing the pressure of his leg.

"Mm, how is this then?" he asked against Jack's jaw. He was pulling Jack's waistcoat and tunic out from under his belts, triple-tasking now, _God_.

Jack shuddered at the brush of his soft hands. He tried to clear his head, grasped Beckett's chin and created another slow kiss. Jack's waistcoat had been successfully removed and discarded now and he felt hands running all along his torso under his tunic as they kissed, accelerating with passions. But he had to pull back after awhile. "Ya know, mate, I've been wiv girls who weren't this much of a pain in the neck, if you take my meaning."

But Beckett was immune to jabs at his height by now. His only response was to bite down on Jack's earlobe and flick his tongue and murmur into Jack's ear, "Then let us make ourselves more comfortable, shall we?" He finally backed off and Jack seized the opportunity to stumble with him onto the bed. It was nearly dark now.

Jack made sure he was half on top of Beckett and continued kissing him open-mouthed, propping himself up over his head with one hand and undoing Beckett's breeches with the other.

"Your hands are much too graceful to be wasted in swordplay," Beckett said distantly, not seeming to realize he was talking. "You ought to use them for something musical instead."

"Didn't think you were of a contrary mind, luv." Jack had opened Beckett's breeches enough to slip a hand inside.

Beckett gasped and arced into it. "Uhh . . ."

Jack grinned.

"Uh, Jack . . . fuck . . ." He was panting.

Jack sat up, continued stroking while he took off his boots, then started on Beckett's. That wasn't really working, however, and Beckett emitted an irritated growl and sat up to kick them off along with his breeches. Jack noticed he'd foregone the stockings at some point and regretted missing the opportunity to poke fun. Beckett turned his attention to Jack, his eyes roving over his various accouterments, unsure of where to start. He settled for the striped sash and pulled it off with little incident.

"And what—possible—necessity—are these varied and copious belts?"

"'Ave to keep the girls off me somehow, mate." Jack grinned winningly, but it sputtered when Beckett had finally worked one off and ran his hands over skin.

"Right. A little help?"

"I'm not sure as I'm in the mood," Jack teased.

"Oh? No matter." He changed back to predatory again and seized the ends of Jack's tunic, tugged sharply to throw off his balance and toppled him over easily, ripping it open.

"Oof, hey!"

"Please shut up." Beckett managed to pull Jack's trousers down despite the belts, and his haste didn't exactly facilitate comfort, but Jack—ohh—Jack could forgive him. He threw his head back and relished every detail of what Beckett was doing to his very demanding cock. He searched blindly for Beckett's shirtfront, hand crawling up and pulling him down by his cravat so Jack could kiss him rather messily, untying the superfluous scrap of clothing and throwing it somewhere, struggling to master the elaborate buttons on the elaborate waistcoat while Beckett continued to stroke him and search Jack's mouth thoroughly with his tongue.

Once his buttons were disposed of, Beckett sat back, still straddling Jack, to remove the thing and toss it onto their growing pile of discarded clothing. He paused where he was and smiled a devilish little smile at the general situation, eventually deigning to move off of Jack. Jack lunged dizzily up to him, taking him in hand again and groping at Beckett's shirt until some of the buttons came undone. He licked around the shell of Beckett's ear. "For such a tiny bloke your prick isn't something to be sneezed at," he told him.

"Glad you approve," Beckett drawled. Then, "Ohhell—" after Jack had slithered deftly down his body and taken the aforementioned anatomy in his mouth. Beckett looked down and met his eyes but couldn't survive the visual orgasm and had to draw in several shaky breaths. He shifted helplessly lower until he was lying flat on his back, squirming restlessly, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and tensing all over.

Jack ran his hand up Beckett's body, flicked a nipple, then touched fingers to his lips. Beckett opened his mouth and set to licking at them most suggestively until Jack had to stop and watch him. Beckett's eyes glinted with mirth and he took one of Jack's fingers into his mouth and sucked on it downright lasciviously. Jack made a strangled sound.

Beckett sniggered. He watched Jack go back to what he'd been doing and his expression began to falter. "I do take back what I said . . ." Jack reclaimed his hand from Beckett's attentions and slid one digit unceremoniously inside him. ". . . about swordplay being a waste of _ohfuck_ , fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck."

Jack wasted no time in adding another finger. He finally withdrew his mouth, licked along the underside of Beckett's cock broadly just once.

" _Jack_ . . ." Beckett's composure was crumbling with increasing momentum.

"Alright, my lord?" Jack asked lowly.

"Ah, mhmm . . ."

He wanted Beckett _now_ and the impulse threatened to overwhelm him and he tried to untangle the mechanics of fornication in his brain in order to continue. He spit on his free hand and spread it over his cock, trying not to think about how good it felt.

"Jack, come _here_ ," he heard Beckett say.

Jack obeyed, positioning himself and gradually entering, feverish with how ridiculously tight it was. He watched the entranced concentration on Beckett's face twitch at every additional inch and felt him let out a lengthy low moan. Jack started moving at a steady pace. Beckett made a sharp and impatient noise.

"Oh, sodding—just _fuck me already_ , Jack," Beckett growled, pushing down in frustration.

Jack stopped and let out an exasperated breath, already exerting himself as it was. "You're so bloody _picky_ , aren't you, you—you—"

"What? _What_?" Beckett's voice rose and he was trying desperately to glare, but his attempt at menace while flushed and pinned half-naked beneath a pirate was dreadful.

"You smug, spoiled, brocade-wearing, tea-guzzling, no good, dirty, _short_ , aristocratic _bastard_!" Jack spit out. He found purchase on Beckett's hips and thrust deeply just once, just to watch Beckett's eyes roll back in his head, tried to catch his breath at the sight, went back to moving in earnest and faster, knowing it was hurting and knowing how Beckett went crazy for it.

Their breathing was loud and living in the shadowy room, laced with gasps and cut off words.

A weak little sound escaped through Beckett's lips.

"Mmm, you're such a bloody good fuck, Cutler," Jack muttered, biting his neck, laving the spot with his tongue and then thrusting harder.

Beckett's eyes flashed from beneath fluttering lids and every glimpse was bright blue and supernatural-looking. Jack was getting close, they'd been beating around the bush for too long, and right now Beckett was so utterly lost and it felt _so good_ and Jack heard words dribbling unceasingly out of Beckett's mouth: "Don'tstop, don'tstop, oh God, oh _God_ ohmyGod Jack—don't, ah, don't stop don't stopdon'tstopdon't—"

Jack brought their mouths together, not a kiss at all, just breathing heated air and crushing lips and lightly biting. He felt Beckett's nails digging into his back urgently, pressed his face into his neck and found a different angle.

" _Oh fucking bollocks Jack would you please get your bloody hair tentacles off my face_ and, and, and— _yess_ —harder—uh—"

Jack accelerated and moved and felt removed from his body and the sea was rushing in and compressing him and it was unbearable, unbearable—

Beckett came with a shout and Jack soon followed him, collapsed and they were so sweaty, their skin slick and lingering like kisses with each breath wherever they touched. Jack gathered his depleted strength and rolled off of Beckett, who was still making soft sounds, eyes closed and hidden, one limp arm flung over his head and twisted up in sheets. Jack watched him exist so exposed and sweetly defeated until his eyes became too heavy. They lay there for mindless minutes.

*

"I plan," Beckett said abruptly, "to wait until the opportune moment to do anything." He looked over at Jack, who was still trying to catch his breath.

It took him a moment to sort out what Beckett was talking about. He grinned. "Good man," he said fondly.

Beckett rolled over until he could reach his discarded waistcoat. He pulled a small pistol out of it, placed it on the bedside table within reach, and collapsed next to Jack again with a sigh.

Jack lifted himself up. "You had—?"

"Not to worry. You'll notice I didn't _use_ it." He gave Jack his usual smile, amused and superior.

*

Beckett felt out of place everywhere. His clothes were too weather-worn to look respectable anymore and his hair was currently kept out of his face by a bandana—the warm tropical wind was whipping around the deck. Likewise, he couldn't very well have tea on a pirate ship and expect to strike the proper fear into the hearts of men. He would just have to find a different way to look respectable, he supposed, stirring in sugar rather excessively.

"Master Beckett, I see ye've wasted no time in making yerself at home on me ship."

Beckett looked up at him after a moment, took time to sip his tea and replace it carefully on the saucer. Cleared his throat minutely, more for effect than anything. "Yes, well, it was my ship to begin with, was it not?" He clinked his spoon on the teacup and put it down, didn't bother to face him again. "Oh, don't _fret_ , Captain. I have no particular desire to reclaim her for myself," he said disdainfully.

The Captain stood there, waiting for him to continue. Beckett shot him a bored look.

"Aye," he said suspiciously. "Well ye'd be well advised to remember who it is that be Captain o' the _Black Pearl_ now, _matey_."

"Again I assure you, you have nothing to fear from _me_ , Captain," Beckett said wearily.

The Captain let lose a kind of annoyed snarl and returned to his quarters.

Beckett sat back, reveled nearly wantonly in his first real cup of tea in months, fairly certain it had been stolen from the Company at some point. It really was calming to be on the open sea, the salt air and the lovely skies. And blocking out the rather disgusting crew wasn't terribly taxing. After he'd finished his tea he stood and commanded a straight line through the swarming pirates to the railing, ignored their black looks. He pulled the compass out of his pocket and saw that Jack was somewhere to the west. It wasn't really good business to take up with him like this, but in Jack Sparrow's world it made perfect sense. Beckett would just have to rearrange his goals. He had even less compunctions about putting a piratey spin on them than he could have imagined. It was easier to be himself here, he realized, and felt a grin creeping up on him.

*


End file.
